Fake Model by Cassie Mint

Five

Coral

Isit cradled on Archer’s lap, his hard, muscled thighs supporting my weight like it’s nothing.

I’m done. I’m cooked. My brain has left the building.

When the rumble of the waves and the cry of seabirds finally pierces my daze, I clear my throat and struggle to my feet. I have to tug my panties back so they cover me, the lace soaked and ruined, and heat floods down from my hairline.

“Oh no you don’t.” Archer pushes to his feet, cradling my cheek and brushing his thumb over my lip. “Don’t go blushing and feeling ashamed. You’re beautiful, Billie Blue.”

My sister’s name on his lips is like a bucket of icy water tipped down my back.

Archer thinks I’m her. A successful model at the start of a dazzling career. A brave, shining presence—not a maid who hides away in her apartment.

He touched me, put his mouth there, and he doesn’t even know who I am.

Crap.

I stumble back up the beach, my mind racing as he strolls by my side. All his earlier moodiness is long gone. He’s smiling and peaceful, the sunshine glinting golden in his tied back blond hair. I must have pulled a few strands from their tie when I grabbed his face, rode his tongue, because they dangle now beside his sturdy cheekbones.

Snatching my robe from Archer’s hand as we walk, I shove my shaking hands through the sleeves and tug it around me. He frowns at me, concerned, but I avoid his eye.

Oh god. Oh god. He’ll be so angry.

He’ll look at me like he did this morning.

With disappointment and anger in his eyes.

I can’t bear it. I won’t. Not when what we just did together was the most magical experience of my life. Maybe I’m a coward—okay, I’m definitely a coward—but I just know that I’ll never feel like that again.

I can’t ruin the memory that I’ll hold close for my whole life.

And this day has been about Billie, about her career and about not letting Archer and the designer down.

So I’ll be selfish. Just this once.

I’ll protect my heart.

Archer strides ahead when we reach the makeshift work station, grabbing a bottle of water and swigging from it thirstily. I watch the column of his throat bobbing, hypnotized, before I shake myself and grab the next garment bag.

He gives me a small smile as I walk past to the changing area. There’s so much trust and hope in his eyes.

My chest cleaves in two as I duck behind the divider. As I pull on my own clothes with trembling hands instead of the next lingerie set, and pause to suck in one last breath.

I can almost smell him. My screaming emotions conjure his scent—the crisp, masculine scent that surrounded me on his lap. I close my eyes, feeling the ghost of his touch on my skin, my heart shattering inside me.

It’s easy to sneak out. I slip through a gap in the changing stall, hurrying away across the beach with my ragged breath loud in my ears.

I’ve just reached my battered old car, tucked in beside the sidewalk at the top of the beach, when a roar splits the sky. Archer stands frozen on the sand, his expression broken as he watches me tug open my car door.

I throw myself into the driver’s seat, risking one last glimpse through the window.

His chest heaves, the movement so stark I can see it from all the way off the beach. Archer takes one step toward me but stumbles to a halt, a hand reaching.

Like he can’t believe I’d do this. That I’d run away and leave him behind after what we just shared.

He doesn’t know a single thing I’m capable of.

He doesn’t even know who I am.

* * *

Billie is sprawled on the sofa in my maid’s tunic when I get home, her usually cheerful face drawn and sad.

“Hey,” she murmurs as I walk inside, my shoulders slumping all the way down to the floorboards. She does a double-take. “You look how I feel.”

I nod, too exhausted to speak. My shoes trail sand across our living room, and I kick them off before flopping down on the rug beside the sofa.

Billie scratches at my scalp as I tip my head back on the cushions.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Nope. You?”

She huffs out a breath. “No.” Then: “What a day.”

I hum in agreement, my eyes drifting closed. Though my heart is aching and raw, at least I’m here. In our quiet sanctuary, filled with sunshine and potted plants. The art prints we picked out together at a flea market hang on the walls, and Billie’s got soft music playing.

“What’s the verdict?” She tugs at a loose thread on the sofa cushion. “You gonna be a model with me, Coral?”

I snort, turning my head to meet her eye. She bites her lip, holding back a laugh, and suddenly the day’s humiliation doesn’t seem so bad. I throw up my hands, ranting at the ceiling.

“I sucked! I was so, so bad. The clothes were all too small, and I swear, I had the charisma of drying paint. Archer could barely—”

I cut myself off, my throat tightening. I don’t want to talk about him.

“Yeah,” Billie whispers, playing with my hair with her good hand. “It’s rough out there. For maids, too.”

“Oh god,” I groan. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” she squawks. Billie is a terrible liar.

“Did you break something valuable?”

“No…”

“Did you piss Mr. Koven off?”

She chews on her lip, face guilty.

“Um. Maybe. In a way.”

I nod, dropping my head back and staring at the ceiling. The sunlight plays over the white paint, tiny shadows dancing where the potted plants sway by the open windows.

I can hardly be angry. Whatever she did to my boss, I sure as hell did worse to hers. Jeez—I rode his face; ground my pussy onto his tongue; moaned out his name. Guilt floods my insides, rising hot up my throat, and I swallow hard.

How could I do this to her? It’s like I was a whole other person today. Someone who gets caught up in the moment, hazy with lust, and puts her sister’s career in danger.

I reach for Billie’s good hand and squeeze her fingers.

I’ll tell her. I will. I’ll tell her everything.

All the shameful things I’ve done.

But not today. Not when everything feels so sore and sad. I’ll take one night to lick my wounds, to gather my courage, and I’ll confess tomorrow.

Hopefully my twin sister can forgive me.

Hopefully I can forgive myself.

* * *

Our phones start buzzing as we clear up after dinner, washing the plates and wiping down the table in tired silence. I ignore my phone at first, watching the screen light up as it rattles against the coffee table, then turning away.

It buzzes once for a text. Twice. Three times.

Then it starts to ring.

“Crap.” I wipe my hands on the dish cloth and toss it on the counter. But Billie squawks and rushes across the room, swiping up my phone before I can get there first.

“Billie?”

She shakes her head, staring down at my phone, horrified. She stands there, holding my phone as it buzzes in her palm, until finally it stops.

Silence rings through the apartment.

“Billie, what—”

Her phone chirps on the kitchen counter, the screen lighting up with a text. I whip my head around, trepidation sliding down my spine.

It buzzes again.

And again.

“Oh my god.” I dash across the kitchen, bumping my hip against the table, and snatch her phone up with a shaking hand. Sure enough, Archer’s name lights up the screen as it rings again in my palm. “I d-don’t… I can’t…”

Billie clears her throat. She holds up her palms, my phone tucked in her fingers of my good hand, her cast bulky on the other. My phone keeps buzzing, the screen a glowing blue rectangle in her grip.

“Maybe…” she twists her mouth, but keeps talking. “Maybe we could swap phones for the night. No questions asked?”

I’m nodding before she’s finished her sentence.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Th-that sounds good.”

She frowns slightly, concerned. I hardly ever stutter when it’s just us two, alone.

But we’re not alone, are we? Apparently we have two ticking time bombs in our hands.

“Coral, is everything alright—”

“You s-said no questions!” I dodge around the side of the table, her phone tucked close to my chest. It keeps buzzing there, rattling my aching heart through my rib cage. “I’m going to bed.”

She nods, even though it’s still light out. “Okay. Um. Me too.”

We shut ourselves away in our bedrooms, a thousand unanswered questions hanging thick in the air.

Tomorrow. We’ll sort through all this tomorrow.

I blow out a breath, my shoulder blades pressed to my door, and stare down at Billie’s phone in my palm. It buzzes against my skin, the screen lit with his name, and when I swipe to answer, my throat clamps tight.

“Hello?” I croak, dread sliding through my gut. “Archer?”

There’s a sigh down the line.

Then: “You owe me a photo shoot, sweetheart.”